


Confess Your Sins With All Sincerity

by blackbird_flying



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 20:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19471258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbird_flying/pseuds/blackbird_flying
Summary: She knows it’s about daddy issues. She’s been to therapy, to enough half-empty, poorly lit feminist lectures. Hell, if you go far enough back, it probably has something to do with her mother and that religious phase. But when he tells her to kneel in that hoarse voice, she doesn’t give a fuck.





	Confess Your Sins With All Sincerity

**Author's Note:**

> This is all consensual. Notes at the end if you're worried
> 
> Unbeta-ed and rough

She knows it’s about daddy issues. She’s been to therapy, to enough half-empty, poorly lit feminist lectures. Hell, if you go far enough back, it probably has something to do with her mother and that religious phase. But when he tells her to kneel in that hoarse voice, she doesn’t give a fuck.

There’s a moment, after she carefully sets her drink down on the helpful ledge (why is there a ledge in a confessional? Will the glass leave a stain? Are there coasters?) that she’s not sure. The wood beneath her knees is rather unforgiving, and she doesn’t know if this is the beginning of a conversion or the beginning of a fall. It doesn’t matter, to be perfectly honest. If her priest has decided this is the moment to bring her into the fold, she’ll go. Gladly. She hasn’t felt this free since Boo died. Probably before, if she’s being honest. And she is being honest, tonight, for a wild change.

She got into this to fuck a priest. She knows it, her therapist knows it, probably anyone who’s met her could guess at it. Certainly, she wasn’t being subtle. But this moment, in the dark confessional, it’s more about honesty than it is about distracting herself. It’s about the only person who’s tried to follow her when she drifts away. From the beginning, he’s asked her questions and actually wanted to hear an answer. As annoying as it is, he sees her. So this might have started out as a bit of a lark, but she’s following his lead now.

And then he opens the curtain. She knows that look, has seen glints of it out of the corner of her eye when she calls him Father. He looms over her, hiding nothing now, and slowly parts her mouth with his thumb. Rubs the wetness on her lower lip, and she can feel the callouses on his fingers. So, not a conversion.

Kissing him is like breathing, or drowning, she’s not sure. It’s the hottest fucking thing and impossible to stop. She knows he’s a mess. Fifteen minutes ago, he was tearing up about Winnie the Pooh, of all things. But there’s an edge to him too, always has been. When he said, “don’t move,” with such authority, she had to jog herself out of a stupor after a few minutes, remember it’s just a figure of speech. Because part of her has always wanted that, to not move. To kneel. To follow the fucking directions and color in the lines and Jesus fucking Christ he’s got his hand in her knickers. She tries to return the favor but, “Is this a skirt and trousers?” Don’t get her wrong, she’s a fan of the outfits, but at the moment she’s ready to tear this thing apart.

And then the painting of Jesus (rather lascivious, if you ask her) falls. Perfect timing, really. Her priest pulls away, and she’s sure that’s the end of that. It’s a sign. God is talking to him again, and wherever he is, God is not her biggest fan. The last few years have made that clear.

But his eyes only sharpen, and he grits out, “kneel.”

Somehow she’d gotten distracted. She’d certainly meant to follow his instructions. It probably had something to do with the kissing, but she lets her knees fold abruptly and she’s back, looking up at his face haloed in the dim light. “Tell me what to do Father!” she’d said. And he does now, or he shows her, as he deftly unbuttons the cassock.

And she’s had a lot of sex. A fucking lot of sex. But she can’t remember the last time she felt this important. With Harry it was whiny and weird, he needed an emotional connection or some shit like that. That’s not her priest. His hands are cradling her cheeks, gentle, reverent, while he almost chokes her with his cock. He needs her, and she’s lightheaded with the feeling. She puts a hand down her pants and starts stroking in time to his thrusts, and he groans at the sight. She’s almost too wet, and immediately desperate for it. She’s lost in it, in the feel of him in her mouth, his smell, the hot ache in her clit. It doesn’t feel like long before he’s coming, filling her mouth and dribbling obscenely down her chin. He looks down at her, blouse twisted and hand down her trousers.

“Come for me, child,” he says with that half smile of his.

Never let it be said that she resists spiritual guidance.

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about the S and M community, but even I know this sort of situation should only happen after a long conversation about consent and safewords etc etc. I have skipped that because I don't think it's particularly sexy (to each their own) and this is a fantasy. But please don't think for a moment I am encouraging unsafe sex practices


End file.
